Light a Candle for the Prince
by Iced Blood
Summary: Chapter 03: Bonds run deep, even when they are frayed. Affection rests on the laurels of routine. They may not have the happiest home, but they have an honest one; which is more than they could say before.
1. Prologue: Perpetual Check

_**Welcome, my dear lords, ladies, and gentlemen. You will, of course, know me as Iced Blood, tormentor of orphaned siblings; Iced Blood, venerator of clichés and tired plot devices (so long as they are used in earnest, and without reservation).**_

_**Iced Blood, chief-level procrastinator with too many ideas in his head.**_

_**Ahem. Okay. I think I'm done talking like that. My point is that I should be working on a number of other things, but found that I could not. This is the most difficult, and frustrating, aspect of organic writing. I go where the story takes me, and for the most part this is a freeing experience. But sometimes it makes it very hard to focus.**_

_**Nonetheless, I welcome you to this new project of mine. Actually, this is more of a prologue to the main event. I'm putting this up now to show you what I have in store for the future of my work with the Yu-Gi-Oh! franchise.**_

_**I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that I will be focusing on everyone's favorite misanthrope. It may interest you to note that, as a first in my work, I will be confining myself entirely to manga canon. Nothing from the anime will touch this narrative; names, places, plot points, what have you.**_

_**Now then, I think the time has come to get this show started.**_

_**Please turn off your cellular phones and other electronic devices. Relax, sit back, and enjoy.**_

_**If you can.**_

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"I know what you did."

A shiver of superstitious fear, like a traitorous pet with a flair for rebellion, skittered up Kaiba Seto's spine and nestled somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder-blades. His thin right hand twitched for a gun that wasn't there; he'd left it at home. Perhaps he'd done it because somewhere in the murky ocean of his intuition, he'd known that this would happen, and he didn't trust his body to obey him on willpower alone.

He trusted willpower for a great many things but, on the subject of _not _killing Pegasus Crawford, he trusted nothing.

Adjusting the collar of his shirt—because it gave him something to do that _almost _felt like strangling someone—Seto took a step back, turned slowly on one heel, and faced his old tormentor with an expression like someone might expect to see on an ancient coffin: deadened, but still imperial.

"Crawford," Seto said flatly, taking in the silver sheen of the man's hair, the cool precision in the cut of his suit, the impeccable ruffle of his blinding white shirt. Seto registered this information with resigned apathy.

Pegasus, in starkest contrast, took in Seto with an expression that bordered on religious awe. "Kaiba-boy," he said, almost fondly. "You never fail to make a public gathering more . . . interesting. If I might be so forward, why did you choose to accept this invitation? I would have thought you were done with my little game."

"_Magic & Wizards _has been the flagship franchise for the Kaiba Corporation ever since the Duel Disk," Seto replied scathingly. "I am here as a matter of course."

There were other people gathered in the hotel ballroom—which had been converted into a convention hall for the weekend—but none of them were of any sort of interest to these men. They were reporters, and spokespeople; they were enthusiasts. The others were here in the pursuit of shared interests and passions.

But Kaiba Seto and Pegasus Crawford were tied to this innocuous little children's game through something much more primal, much more visceral, than passion. They both searched every little speck of color in the other's eyes; neither knew what he would do if he happened to find anything of consequence, if indeed he opted to do anything at all.

It was, like Seto's appearance at the event, a matter of course.

"What are you talking about?" Seto asked after the silence had gone on for too long, and too amicably. "What, if it matters, have I done?"

Pegasus put on a strange expression. He glanced around, and for just the barest flash of a moment Seto could see the empty socket where a sparkling golden eye had once sat; he wondered for another flash why the man hadn't replaced his lost eye with a glass one, or at least elected to wear a patch, before he remembered: _It's Pegasus Crawford._

The one-eyed lunatic grinned like a child and gestured excitedly for Seto to follow him. "Come, come, dear boy. Let us sit. Do you drink? The spread here is _ravishing. _What about food? Have you eaten? Come, come with me!"

Seto affected an exasperated sigh before following his antagonist across the hall. After a perfunctory sip of champagne and the barest sliver of some pungent imported cheese whose name he didn't even pretend to remember, he said, "This charade is pitiful. Your games had a greater effect when you had a more overt aura of danger about you." Seto gestured vaguely to the left side of his face. "Right around here."

Pegasus, for his part, laughed. He plucked up a snifter of Armagnac and toasted his enemy. "Do you know, I learned quite a lot about people while in possession of that golden eye? I learned to match faces to feelings, expressions to attitudes. It wasn't nearly as much of a crutch as you might think, Kaiba-boy."

"Fascinating." Seto flagged down an attendant and requested a pot of oolong tea. "Do continue."

Pegasus smirked, in a frighteningly accurate imitation of Seto's signature expression. His single visible eye had the same hard, gunmetal glint that Seto's had, as well. Pegasus said, "I've watched you since you arrived yesterday morning, Kaiba-boy. You have a new look about you. A new harshness in your face. I wondered what sort of thing could have done that. So I looked into it. I understand young Mokuba took a rather extensive leave of absence from school, some time back. How _is _the little darling?"

Seto's face tightened, and his eyes flared with hot anger tinged with something deeper, something more poisonous, that had the flavor of guilt. "Do yourself a favor," he whispered. "Never speak his name again in front of me."

Pegasus, without batting an eyelash, bowed with a flourish. "Of course. My apologies."

They sat down. Seto's tea arrived, Pegasus sipped his brandy, and the silence was almost companionable. Some of the others noticed that the Godfather and the Golden Boy of _Magic & Wizards _were sharing a drink together, but most knew better than to approach. Those few who did not earned themselves a salute from one and a Byronic glower from the other.

Pegasus polished off his drink first, and leaned his head back to stare contemplatively at the chandelier hanging dead-center from the ceiling.

Seto's body froze from the inside out when Pegasus said:

"I know what you did to Philip Greene."


	2. Sonnet 01: Little Rich Boy

_**It's going to be a little while before the first "real" chapter of this story starts up. I've posted the prologue, and I'll be putting this up, as an initial glimpse. I'm still working out my new draft. So I'll be working out how to clean things up and make it match up to my initial vision, alongside my other projects.**_

_**When I started work on this, I wanted to condense it into very specific, concrete ideas. I imposed a limit on myself. And in order to make sure I kept the theme in context with each section, I decided to use one of the most condensed forms of artistry I know:**_

_**The Shakespearean sonnet.**_

_**This is the first, and it should give you an idea of what you're getting yourselves into.**_

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**.**

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Poor little rich boy, despondent and cold.

No one will come and see if he's okay.

Poor little rich boy; his eyes make him old.

He falls on his knees but he doesn't pray.

Hurt little rich boy, with bruises and scars,

And a secret he doesn't want to tell.

Stuck in a cage that has no chains or bars;

Only a window that stares into hell.

Lost little rich boy, confused and alone;

He's hiding behind a thousand-yard stare.

Lost, dying rich boy can't find his way home;

Lonely heart screaming for someone to care.

It should be over; so why won't it end?

Where are the people who call him their friend?


	3. Chapter 01: My Sorry Miracle

_**Hello, all. Welcome back. A bit of homework before we begin.**_

_**This story is split into six sections, and each section will have ten chapters and one sonnet. The first sonnet, "Little Rich Boy," acts as a thematic prologue to this first section.**_

_**Another thing, and this is just a bit of fun. Music has always been a great inspiration for me, so I tend to pick out theme songs for my various stories. Since this one is split so decisively, it has a theme song for each section.**_

_**Take a listen to "Bartholomew" by The Silent Comedy at some point while reading this section.**_

_**Now, then. Shall we begin?**_

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The most mystifying part of the whole sordid foray was how few people knew it had happened at all.

The house staff knew. _He _knew. And _they _knew. It amounted to a bare handful of people in a city housing hundreds of thousands—in a country of more than one-hundred-million. Going strictly by the numbers, the percentage was fundamentally irrelevant, and all factors considered it was a miracle. A sick, sacrilegious miracle.

Kaiba Seto was in the business of just such miracles, as it turned out; _Solid Vision _was proof enough of that. He still got letters, on a disturbingly regular basis, from parents claiming that his smoke-and-mirrors holograms were somehow socially corrosive, devilish acts of witchcraft. He wasn't entirely sure that they were wrong.

But truth told, he didn't think very much about the specifics of his day-to-day dealings, even when they were plagued with ignorant, indolent criticism. He kept his schedule on both micro and macro levels with the efficiency of a machine, but like a machine there wasn't any feeling in it. There hadn't _ever_ been much passion in his work, and after what had happened—well. That was the crux of the whole thing, wasn't it?

He made videogames for a living, and that tended to make people think he was immature. Childish. They thought he spent his working hours _playing _the products of his labor; they thought his title meant that whatever was left of his time was taken up by giving speeches, delivering presentations, nailing the _big contract, _and a smorgasbord of other corporate clichés that all added up to the fact that he hadn't ever really _worked _a day in his life. Honestly, how else could he possibly have the time to build a theme park, and host a trading card tournament? A real genius would have moved on to something serious by now. Good Lord, he was nearly eighteen years old!

The president of the Kaiba Corporation didn't deal with people who thought like that, because he didn't have the free time or the inclination to defend himself anymore. Kaiba Seto didn't tell any of these people that the average age of a "gamer" was steadily rising on a yearly basis, and currently sat somewhere around the mid-thirties. He didn't tell any of these people that he never played his own games because he never had to bother; he was confident enough in his ability to deliver a good product without reaffirming it personally. The sales spoke for themselves.

He didn't bother pointing out that worrying about the opinions of people who wouldn't be caught dead purchasing his products in the first place was the exact opposite of his job.

In his same position, other social figureheads were caught saying, "I have more important things to worry about." Kaiba Seto never said this, but in no one was the old adage truer than he. Running Kaiba-Corp was lodged deep into muscle memory so ingrained in him that it no longer required much conscious thought. Which was good, particularly nowadays, when his waking mind was focused on matters much more delicate, and his sleeping mind—such that it was—was focused on matters much more disgruntling.

Kaiba Seto woke on the morning of the 22nd day of October, in the year 2005, with a great number of things already taking up residence in his thoughts; none of these things had anything to do with the minutiae of the corporate square-dance that filled his day planner and painted his resume, and none of these things had anything to do with the fact that he would be facing the eighteenth anniversary of his unfortunate birth in less than a week.

For the first time in nearly a decade, Kaiba Seto's thoughts were centered squarely on his brother, and his thoughts were less than pleasant.


	4. Chapter 02: The First of All Sins

_**Some of these chapters are short. Some will be substantially longer. It depends on what needs to be added. I was extremely limiting on myself as I wrote the first draft, so as to ensure that I wouldn't get off-topic. This is a very centralized story. I meant for it to be that way.**_

_**These first few chapters are relatively short, because there isn't much that I needed to change from their original, 500-word drafts. Also, they were meant primarily to set the stage, and get used to the characters. The Seto and Mokuba of this tale are vastly different from the Seto and Mokuba that you'll find in any of my other stories.**_

_**There's good reason for that, and it's not just because they're modeled after their initial, manga counterparts.**_

_**I'm being deliberately vague here at the beginning more to set the mood and atmosphere. Don't worry; before we finish this first section, you'll know what happened.**_

_**Mostly.**_

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Kaiba Mokuba was nine years old, but he had the eyes of a bitter man more than thrice his age. Grey and violet swirled like angry storm clouds in his eyes, and he was already learning his brother's art of using his stare as a weapon. Not six months before now, the first question people asked when they looked at him was how a child like him could possibly be the vice-president of anything. Now, the question was how they hadn't seen it sooner.

His brother insisted that he go to school. Mokuba often found himself thinking long and hard on the futility of a so-called "formal" education. He already spent much of each day at the Kaiba Corporation's central offices, filing and copying, and generally assisting however he could. He attended his brother's meetings, took notes, found classes and tutorials online while other workers were on their lunch breaks. He learned public speaking, marketing; he learned how to deal with people.

He learned. He produced. He contributed.

What he could possibly learn from, produce with, or contribute to a classroom full of half-dead drooling sheep was a mystery he had yet to solve. At Kaiba-Corp., people called him "Kaiba-fukushachou." At school, people called him "that Kaiba kid." At Kaiba-Corp., people bowed their heads and smiled deferentially when they saw him. At school, people stared and pointed, and whispered snide remarks. People knew what they were doing at Kaiba-Corp. People hadn't the faintest clue what they were doing at school.

It didn't take a child psychologist to determine which setting Mokuba preferred.

He'd asked, a few times now, if he could be home-schooled, like Niisama. But so far, his requests had been denied. Apparently interacting with his peers was an important life skill, too, and Mokuba wasn't permitted to shirk a situation just because it made him uncomfortable or angry.

Even now.

Kaiba Mokuba rose from bed as his alarm sounded, dressed quickly but perfunctorily in jeans and a t-shirt, slipped on a pair of expensive-but-battered sneakers, and trudged into the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom to comb his hair. He did none of these things because he wanted to do them, but because his brother did. That was a deciding factor in a great many things that Mokuba found himself doing. His own moral compass was warped, he knew that, and societal norms could go fuck themselves. But Niisama's expectations still held true for him.

Once, he had tried to explain himself and his motives. Mutou Yuugi and his band of friends were the only people he thought even might _passably _understand; the jury was still out on if they did. "I don't care what pain I have to go through," he'd said to them, "as long as I can help my Niisama."

Since his first moments of conscious memory, Mokuba had been at his brother's heels, hoping in whatever small way to help him, to please him, to make him proud. There were a lot of people who had those same hopes, especially these days, but Seto wasn't interested in any of them; that he still tolerated Mokuba's ministrations, clumsy and ignorant as they tended to be, was a matter of rather furious pride for the young Kaiba.

Even now.

Mokuba still strove to make his brother smile. Strove to make him proud. He supposed, in whatever capacity that served him for reflection anymore, that that was why he never complained about _it. _Why he never talked about _it. _Even though sometimes he thought _it _might drive him into an asylum. Why, when he woke in the middle of the night with sweat and self-inflicted scratches on his face and a scream still halfway-trapped inside his throat, he didn't go running for Niisama's bedroom and break down the door.

He had no right to expect his brother to soothe the nightmares away, to stroke his hair and rock him back to sleep. Even after what had happened, even though he was still so small for his age, even though people said that was Seto's job as his guardian, Mokuba had no right to expect it from him.

Niisama had gone through hell first. Niisama hadn't had anyone to nurture him, to whisper tenderly to him and make everything better. Niisama couldn't sneak out into the hall at night, in pajamas and a pair of socks, hoping for someone to tell him a story so that he could get back to sleep.

And Niisama never bitched and moaned about the lot he'd been handed in life.

So Mokuba never did, either.

Even now.


	5. Chapter 03: Lest Ye be Judged

_**By now, you've realized that the character dynamics have shifted rather prominently. That doesn't mean everything is different, though. This installment returns (somewhat) to what we're used to. But, it's still shaded over by something bigger. Something darker.**_

_**That's the nature of this story as a whole.**_

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"Mokuba. How are you feeling?"

This was Niisama's standard greeting; he always asked that question in the morning. Mokuba thought that the only reason it didn't bother him when Niisama asked it, even though he ground his teeth whenever someone, anyone, else did was because there was something in Niisama's flinty blue eyes that told him it wasn't a platitude. Niisama wasn't just "honing in" on the fact that Mokuba's thin face was drawn with fear and worry, and asking because he felt it was obligatory; Niisama knew exactly why his brother looked and acted like he did, and he had no intention of ignoring it.

Niisama wasn't asking because he thought Mokuba wanted to hear the question; he was asking because he wanted an answer. More to the point, he _expected _one, which was something that made him immeasurably rare.

Most people in Niisama's position would have asked that question because it was polite, but they wouldn't have paid attention long enough for an answer; they didn't really want one. "He's uncomfortable," they would say, which meant that _they _were uncomfortable, "and he has a right to be," which meant that _they _had a right to be. "If he doesn't want to talk about it, well, that's okay."

Niisama wasn't like that. Niisama _did _want an answer, and he was waiting for one right now.

Mokuba sat down at the dining room table, watching with a tired and irritated expression on his face as the chef set down his breakfast. He brooded. How _was _he feeling? He didn't really know. So he said, "I don't know," and started to eat. After a few perfunctory bites that tasted like stale ashes, he set down his fork—unlike his brother, Mokuba detested chopsticks—and, knowing that what he'd said wouldn't satisfy his guardian, the young Kaiba added: "Tired. Kind of mad. Isono's new tie is stupid." A beat of silence as Niisama stared at him; the two brothers locked eyes from across the bed of polished oak. "Scared."

There had been tension in Niisama's body; it abated. "Do you want to stay home?"

Yes. He did. But Mokuba said, "No."

"Are you sure?" Niisama could always tell when his brother was lying.

"No."

The elder Kaiba frowned thoughtfully and sipped at a mug of tea. Setting it down on a coaster near his right hand, he said, "Call the house if you decide later that you want to come home." This leniency wasn't normal; Niisama was vigilant about Mokuba's school attendance, nearly to the point of paranoia. Mokuba knew that this newfound generosity wouldn't last long if he took advantage of it too often, so he resolved that he wouldn't be calling anybody from school today.

Niisama was dressed severely; he was probably attending something important. He had suits arranged like Defcon ratings, and this one was a 2: stark-black jacket and slacks, bleached white shirt, crimson tie. Classic, refined, intimidating. The creases were so crisp and sharp that they seemed to cut the air as he rose to his feet. Mokuba wondered if he would bleed if he touched them.

The black-haired boy bolted down a few more bites of food, making only a halfway-concerted effort to finish his meal, before emulating his brother and standing up. He didn't manage it as smoothly as Niisama had.

Both Kaibas had a particular stride as they walked out of their home, onto the front grounds of the estate and toward the garage. They were the embodiment of professionalism, in direct spite of Mokuba's shoddy outfit. As they waited for the garage door to open, Seto seemed deeper in thought than usual; there was conflict in his eyes that made them seem like maelstroms in the deepest depths of the oceans, where ancient maps had once warned against sea monsters and dragons.

Heading toward Niisama's car, Mokuba maintained a death grip on his brother's right hand.

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_**I know that I said this was set in Japan, and so using a metaphor about Defcon ratings, an American system, doesn't make sense. I beg patience in this regard, because it's the best metaphor I could come up with.**_


End file.
